Christmas Eve

It's Christmas Eve. The house is quiet. The girls are at Mom's, Kraig is making shirts in the basement, and I have Christmas music playing softly while I finish up a few Christmas gift designs. I keep thinking about how this is the last Christmas exactly like this one.

Of course, every Christmas is the last one exactly like itself, isn't it? Kraig and I aren't staying up late putting toys together anymore. Now we wake our kids up on Christmas Day instead of the reverse. My grandparents aren't able to be present at every single Christmas gathering now, able only to attend the Christmas Day festivities. Some years bring gifts you cannot wait to give, others you feel like you were struggling to think of ANYTHING to give (that was this year for me). Some years Christmas sneaks up on you, others it feels long-anticipated. One day Christmas won't even bring kids waking up in our house anymore, but rather coming to visit, hanging their coat instead of making their bed.

But this Christmas is the last one as a foursome. And it has had lots of feelings attached to it. We are all very aware of the changes to come (and probably very unaware of others, haha!). There is also a sense, at least for me and Kraig (I haven't talked about this much to the girls), of feeling incomplete. And yet also more complete than ever before. We are in a time of waiting, much like the Advent season, much like Mary probably felt as she made that long journey to Bethlehem. We are also in a time of great anticipation and fulfillment of a promise, also much like Mary probably felt as she bedded down in the straw of that cave, birth pains beginning, ready to look into the face of her Son.

Her Son, Who first was His Son. 

Our sons and daughter, who first were His sons and daughter. 

Tomorrow celebrates the day that Mary got to feel His tiny fingers wrap around hers for the first time, the day that she cradled His downy head in her hands, listened to His newborn mewing, and saw in His eyes her whole purpose. We won't get to wrap our arms around two boys and a girl tomorrow, feeling the first hug. We won't get to hear their voices for the first time, to add the laughter of three more to our family chorus. We won't get to see their faces tomorrow, to hear their excitement as they wake up on their first tender Tennessee Christmas morning.

But we will hold to the same promise that Mary held to throughout her pregnancy, delivery, and the years of loving Him on earth... the promise that just as He was His first, they were His first. And just as He walked beside Him during His years on earth, so He is walking beside them across the world right now. He is preparing their hearts, He is holding their hands, and He is loving them through the beautiful caregivers He has provided in their lives "for such a time as this". And our other promise that we cling to is that next Christmas will look different, will be much louder, and will be filled with love multiplied. And for that we are so thankful this year.